


Post Traumatic all-night-long

by mikethemechanic



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Murder-Suicide, Plot Twists, Porn With Plot, Romance, Sad Ending
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:02:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29010219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikethemechanic/pseuds/mikethemechanic
Summary: "How Dangerous," I thought, "to finnaly have something worth losing."
Relationships: Calum Hood/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 2





	1. ashes to ashes

I want to leave, I don't like it here.

I feel the need to move almost without end; if my limbs were moving the anxiety was gone, or at least I could ignore it a while. I'm rocking myself behind the scenes, but the couch hurts, I must stop before I am bruised. The thoughts are accelerating inside my head. I want them to slow so I can breathe but they won't. My breaths come in gasps and I feel like I will black out. My heart is hammering inside my chest like it belongs to a rabbit running for its skin. Everything is black and blue.

I tried opening her eyelids, nothing. I shouted close to her ears, nothing. I picked up her hand above her face and it fell with gravity, smack. Unresponsive, someone call an ambulance, now. If not for her, then for me.

I felt the panic begin like a cluster of spark plugs in my abdomen. Tension grew in my face and limbs, my mind replaying everything. My breathing became more rapid, more shallow. In that moment before the personal hurricane, I understood the drug addict, the alcoholic... anything to stop the primal surge to flee. I hit speed-dial for Cecil, no answer. I called again, my heart racing faster - no answer. Again - no answer. Again -no answer. No Cecil. My eyes scanned other contacts and the panic grew.

There is blood everywhere.

When I managed to get close enough to see her face I froze. Her eyes were more wild than a deer caught in a trap. There was nothing beautiful about her. Her feet were 3 inches off the ground, and blood trickled down her neck and into her jump suit. The only thing stopping her from plummeting face down on the ground was a spear. Around the hilt of the weapon the blood was dry and hard, but still the red liquid drizzled down the girl’s face like rain on a window... She's dead.

The panic starts out as thin cellophane, something my fingers can pierce breathing holes in. In another minute the panic is a deluge of ice water surrounding every limb, creeping higher until it passes my mouth and nose. That's when the attack becomes absolute, shutting my body down as fast as punching a biochemical reset button. 

An invisible hand clasps over my mouth; an equally ghostly hypodermic of adrenaline pierces my heart, unloading in an instant. I feel my ribs heaving as if bound by ropes, straining to inflate my lungs. My head is a carousel of fears spinning out of control, each one pushing my mind into blackness. I want to run; I need to freeze. Sounds that were near feel far away, like I'm no longer in the body that lies paralyzed on the wet grass.

"Nora." Someone says my name, "Nora?"

"hmm."

My eyes are open now, the seat is underneath me again. I am back where I am supposed to be. "The doctor will see you now, Nora."

The Walls were yellow, bright yellow. The chairs had not improved and the doctor had the posture of a soldier. Every action she took was precise and purposeful. She smiled in the cold and distant way professionals do. I can never relax around such expressions. I need a genuine face, preferably a smile, but if not I'd really rather they didn't fake it. Beside me is Charlie, and, just this time, she looks better without all that blood covering her face.

Through the examination, the doctor gave commands rather than requests. The nurse had hovered two feet behind, her relaxed expression of earlier replaced with a grim slash for a mouth and knitted brows. When the prodding was over I dropped my eyes to the covers in anticipation of her speaking to me, but when I raised them again the room was quite empty; they weren't even in the corridor. Leaving me with Charlie, all alone. 

My hands stretched over the cold linen like an infant in search of a comforting toy and closed on the thick itchy fabric. I was alone with her before, many times, but then I felt ever more so. The walls seemed far away and I felt trapped- soon to be tethered by tubes.

I bite my lip, eyes everywhere but on Charlie. Then she moves closer with those eyes that look so deeply into my own. They're mocha, she liked mocha. My breathing becomes softer, the pensive look melting into a smile as soft as the morning light. My body squirms just a little as my muscles relax. "Why so blue?" She asks.

"I feel green."

He legs kick between the metal rods they call legs and the plastic seat adjusts itself with her weight. She reminds me of a child, a bit short if anything. "I like green," she says, "It reminds me of nature, of trees and whatnot." I don't buy it, looking away to stall before I am pulled by my cheeks to face her once more, "They'll be done soon enough, cheer up." With a soft enough pat on the cheek she exists down the corridor, just before the doctor walks in, lollypop in hand.

The tests begin.


	2. homesick and not sure where home is

I don't like drinking.

My hands gripped the bottle, my eyes swiveling towards the back of my head in a distressed sense of a headache. I tilted my head towards the edge of the couch as I took a long swig of the dark substance that has always affected me. I sigh as the walls become part of a fun house, changing figure in a blink of an eye.

My breath was the underlying cause of the smell of alcohol that entered my nostrils, and my mouth was sore from the amount of alcohol that I poured down my throat. I clear it as I stand, just to fall back down on the couch in an unbalanced attempt to walk to the dark bedroom where I could feel the comfort of the bed to overtake the state of drunkenness. I stand again and stagger towards the bedroom, gripping on bookcases and tables, anything to hold me up.

My friends are laughing at me and I can't help but feel helpless. Charlie is no where to be found, she would have told them off if she could.

The stairs I usually take two at a time are a mountain to be negotiated on all fours. My arms flap down on the carpet too hard, and with each push my back end sways like a horse under tranquilizer. My stomach begins to heave in a sickly way and my head is spinning in ways that just makes no sense. It's like the whole house just got put on a carousel, slow at first but gaining momentum. Then like a balloon just got inflated in my stomach everything ate and drunk for the past couple of hours is racing to be expelled. Vomit. There's vomit on the carpet in front. I can't go up, I can't face going down. The world spins one more time and it's lights out until the morning.

I was grounded for a week.

As I scrubbed across the carpet, the soap and chemicals only got stronger, invading my nostrils. Every-so-often somebody would sit beside me looking for conversation, either apologizing or mocking me, soon later going down to the basement for practice. Charlie was the only one who sat and stayed. She was quiet today, clearly deep in thought, journeying through some creative stream only she could sense. She was smart like that. Oftentimes helping me with academics or other languages, but today something was on her mind.

"I'm feeling orange," she says, but that is all, picking up another scrubbing brush and getting to work.

I had broken the drum kit that night as well. It wasn't just the carpet, it wasn't ever just one thing. For a bit of animal skin stretched over a wooden cylinder it was quite easy to break. One wrong move or drunken fit and the drum stick had punctured the lid. Quick and easy, but not so quiet. I liked that drum kit, maybe someday, I'd buy one better. "It had a nice run you know," Cecil is beside me now, arms crossed and eyebrows furrowed.

She moves and now I can't see anything in front, her kinky hair blocking my view. It was the kind of hair you could sculpt, hair with a natural God-given bounce, born to be worn loud and proud. But for now, it was in my way. I feel her hands move to my pockets pulling out the drumsticks from their natural hiding spot and she seats herself, comfy in my chair, of course. The light hit her skin perfectly today, as rich and deep as any stately home mahogany. She found herself hitting the broken drum, no foot pedal in use.

The sound is almost red, but not even her poor drumming could possibly result in such a feeling. She laughs, I laugh, everyone laughs, but Charlie, who is quiet again before leaving the room. Out of sight she remains. She might be red, maybe.

Dinner was stale that night, my mother can't cook, not when she doesn't try. Grace inhales her food. She's a sucker for Greek pizza, the feta and the olives are magical. If all she ever got to it was that, she'd be very happy. The pizza with the rolled stuffed crust was our epic group treat, something we would save up for. That with popcorn afterwards, it was our movie night thing, or just to celebrate. We're leaving soon, we deserve something.

"Me and Charlie have already packed." We have. Unlike the others, leaving as soon as possible was a priority and seen as a privilege. I don't like it here, even the endless road was more exciting.

There is an exchange of glances, quick, but noticeable. I don't like these glances. "I didn't realize Charlie was coming with us, did she ask?"

 _Oh._ That was the problem. "No, I invited her," I look around. Charlie is sat in her corner, observing everything. It was her nature to stay quiet when around crowds. I felt the heat rise to my cheeks as I looked in her direction, I tried to smile and she snapped her head away. She's listening to music leaning her head back and watching as the smoke billows from her lungs into a perfect ring, a trick that took long enough to learn. "She won't be a problem, I promise."


	3. those that came before

"Do you not want to go?"

"I do." Today Charlie is being very submissive, laying on my bed, ruining her spider fingers along the sheets. "Just not now."

I looked at the mirror. The sheen of the hair salon had gone after just one wash, as had the poker straight effect of the hot-iron. my hair had reasserted it's precocious wave, not enough to be ringlets, just sufficient to make it kink out in random directions. I hated it. If a cat had eaten my hair and puked it back out, then let it dry in the sun, it would look just the same; the tangle would take hours to brush out. Charlie had said something about her hair, stealing the comb away from me. Hers was messy no doubt, but no where near the effort to even seem inadequate.

"You look pretty," she says, "pink almost." There was a softness to her appearance when complimenting mine. Even through messy hair, a kind of warmth married to her shyness. It was the look of an honest sad soul. She was not yellow today.

I seat myself beside her, "What's wrong?" No answer.

Instead of questioning, I take the time to pack and prepare. The straps of the bag dig deeply into my skin and curve my spine toward it when walking down the stairs. Carrying it in my hand is too difficult as I must hoist it up to prevent it dragging on the wood floors. From time to time I stop, place it on the ground, step to the other side and place it on the other shoulder. It's not that heavy though, I am just weak. My mother watches from the kitchen, no words, her expressions are blank, just a simple hand wave. With my bag in her hands she leaves down the hallway, quickly and without a simple phrase.

Not even a goodbye.

The flag on the car flutters violently in the wind. It was cute on the city streets but here on the highway it moves so quickly and noisily that I wonder if it might break away from the pole. I watch the cheap plastic bending and the material beat as if it were trying to take flight. It stays that way, a battle between pole and flag until the car slows for the off ramp. I switch my attention to the changing scenery, so this will be our first encounter. It feels so alien, yet no doubt when the time comes I'll be used to all the noise and commotion.

The airport was a carton of steel, the walls so elegantly curved and wrapping around to create this inner space. The beams supported so many windows, let in so much light, that in the daytime it is as bright as any summers day. We arrived at noon, when the people moved as chaotic rainbows, so brilliant were the colours. They flowed from the check-in desks to the cafe's and through the gates, each one of them heading for a destination of their own making.

Everyone but me seats themselves, the seats do not look comfy and so, I choose to stand. 

The secretary seemed talkative, nice and loud, before bribing me into conversation. Anything was better than just standing. Soon from behind her a woman of older age spoke. She was among a crowd of respectable women, conversing loudly, including the First Lady who wore the fanciest hat of them all; they carry the same expression, the pleasure of gossiping. Words were slipping from their big, lousy mouths and they were laughing like happy children. I envied that glee, so instead I watched, laughing along when necessary.

"Do you come from here, honey?" I shake my head, "Yeah, I figured, these locals bore me." There was one hell of a smile behind those lipstick faded teeth, her eyes had told the most of it. This woman was in fact, bright purple.

The boys arrived soon after, mobbed of course. We didn't get to see them before they were ushered off into their hiding places, again. They were tall, tall and soon talkative, seating themselves, bags in hand. They gave us a bus for the ride, 8 teenagers, one roof. The bus is sleek, running over the black tarmac so fast that the passing greenery becomes a hazy blur. The windows are beaded and the rain beats on the roof like some crazy drummer, however, I look and see Ashton is still seated. Inside everyone is a curious mixture of cozy and bored, all of us itching for the destination that will hopefully come eventually. Until then we read, feign sleep, do crosswords and tell jokes. 

Charlie doesn't want to sit next to me, she remains in the back, her corner once again. Instead, I am met with a very funny, friendly, Calum Hood. "Do you mind if I sit?" He asks and by no means, I abide. He's tall as well, towering over me even when seated. The boy looks at me with his head askew on his grubby neck. His eyes are taking me in without moving and I know behind those hazel iris's there are calculations going on. It's odd to be regarded this way by someone loved by so many, but these boys seemed more grown up than most teens- aged not by years but by the mileage of life experience, I assumed.

I feel someone resting their head on my shoulder, whispering, and yet no one can hear them, but me. It's Charlie. "Talk to him," she says, and without missing a beat she smiles, "kiss him for all I care."


	4. subway spirits

The hotel lobby is classy in the most unclassy way possible. It has all the corporate taste for opulent items without the slightest touch of personality - those little out of sync items that make the decor "human." Maybe that's deliberate. From behind the low reception desk, a huge chunk of driftwood covered in sea shells, sits a man slumped in a deck chair. His straw hat is tilted to obscure his face as he dozes, hands over his stomach, knitted together by interlocked fingers. Before I can open my mouth the phone rings, jolting him from his slumber.

At first he has wild eyes, alarmed by both the telephone and me standing so close. Then he picks up the phone only to set it back on the receiver, unanswered.

The hotel lobby has the same odour as my Nan's old folks home. The floor carpet is a decade too old and with an old fashioned pattern of large flowers interrupted by worn and thread-bare patches. The large windows should allow a lot of light through, yet the heavy drapes and city dirt on the panes leaves it dull to the point of depression. Everyone watches the Tv, some standing, some sitting. I think I have done good with the introduction part because no one has asked any further questions. The boys seem to know who I am and that's all that matters.

We arrived at our place shortly after. 

The room is uncomfortably large. It reminds me of a ballroom, not just in the space but in the artwork too. I scan for personal touch, something that doesn't suggest a hired designer chose it. Nothing. The floor is polished concrete, the walls white and the furniture I'm sure is from a high-end Scandinavian designer, but the name escapes me for the moment. There is room in here for dozens of children, though I doubt even one would be welcome. Do I still count as a child? Probably.

Cecil looks at me, so many bags in one hand until I watch her arms give in and everything follows. "It looks musty." She says

"It is musty."

Taking a shower after everything was nice. I love the hot water. I love washing, even in this hotel room. In the square of golden rock the shower water runs free and easy, happily even. I wish I could've stayed there all day, but Cecil is impatient and cold. I hear a couple knocks before stepping out, changing quickly as well. No make up necessary. I don't like makeup, I don't like things on my face. I'm strangling myself with the belt now, another knock, and that's all it takes for her to kick me out.

Her smile is forced, "Were going out," she says and from the corner come four happy boys. Familiar faces, at least.

The train was late. We get left shivering on the platform with ten minutes of numbing quiet. I pick at my hair. A rogue page of yesterday’s newspaper is chased by the wind like a pigeon with wings fluttering with feathers of rhetoric and melodrama.

The raucous, metallic shriek heralds the arrival of the decrepit carriage, standing in defiance of its condition - all corroded iron and tacky upholstery. The doors reluctantly eases open with the force of a stocky station guard, as if gripped by age, the handles stiff with arthritis. There is only one advantage of it being 3 in the morning, I am endowed with the generous elbow room and a guaranteed window seat all to myself. Settling into my self-entitled throne, I unravel a 470 calorie cream cheese and smoked salmon bagel, humble in its crumpled paper bag. Crumbs rain into the crevices of the grimy moquette fabric as I attempted to swallow the taste of regret. Should definitely have ordered that smoothie instead.

The train takes a plunge, inching forward at an excruciating pace. It rocks back and forth, its relentless whining and groaning comparable to a resident of any nursing home. I want to draw, I try to draw, but it isn't working. Art was amazing, art was beautiful, but not when drawn by my hand. By my hand it was like a three year old with a broken arm was given a crayon and told to have fun.

In front of me sits Calum, looking out the window, eyes scanning the same trees over and over again. I don't think he's ever been to the country side. He's not sitting still, and if we both weren't so shy, I might have told him to do so. Drawing something so pretty was challenging, maybe I should've started with a plant. I flung my pencil over without so much as a backward glance, lime green and sharpened so much that there was barely enough left to grip. Even the blunt end bore signs of an abandoned attempt to sharpen the other end. Just another reason to give up and _oh_. 

He's not there anymore.

Someones behind me now, looking over my shoulder in no discreet manner. "Who might this be?" He asks


	5. things I did and things I think I did

Backstage people are loud, angry and loud. I'm checking my makeup, not once, but twice because I know I'm not prepared. No one seems prepared, not even Toby. In that moment he is more fragile than the glass ballerina that sits on my dresser at home. I think if someone were to spin him too hard on stage his limbs might just snap. His brown hair is in his face, earbuds tangled and shoelaces untied. Now that I notice, so are mine. My head faces down for a moment, then up. I only see his sneakers at first, but soon my eyes trail up his core and through his eyes.

Theres a moment in between us that is so discreet I can no longer name it. I feel his hands on my back as he turns me around, having me face the mirror. He's so tall only his stomach is showing through the glass, and yet, that's all I could want to look at. His fingers are In my hair, intertwined as he runs them along every little strand. Now is a bad time to tell him I'm ticklish. "You should put your hair up more often," he says. "Some people like seeing your face."

The mirror must deceive me, because he hasn't done a bad job. Not at all. in fact, I look... pretty? I turn to thank him, hug him at least, but he's left. He's much more busy than implied. Much more skilled than his appearance may convey.

The first time my toes touched the stage there was a frisson that was too elusive to name, yet later I could say what it was. This seat at least, was comfortable, patted as I bounce around, careful because these drums are not mine. There is a feeling of jubilation in the crowd as if they are both firmly on solid ground and levitating all at once, just one more thing I could envy. The band was originally a jazz ensemble, not elevator music, but the kind you'd hope to hear in some smokey underground bar. It was full of soul, emotion sung for the ears by some cheap guitar, but now, it seemed more rock hard than I ever thought it could. Perhaps, it was influence.

Suddenly feeling myself, I turn to sing, shaking my hips and, I was no Shakira, but to hell with that. The spotlight in that moment was a bright dream beamed upon the stage, as if the future already knew I had won, so, why not? In that moment of dance the vibrations of the music became a part of my energy, raising me up several levels all at once and I can't stop, not until the song finishes. When it does, I realize the commotion I have caused backstage. Everyone, EVERYONE, is looking at me.

"Pick your jaw off the floor Cal," I look over because I hear Michael's voice and apparently, no, Calum chooses not too.

My legs feel as if they are going to collapse and finnaly, the lights have refocused. There is still commotion, however I am not as interesting anymore. My shoes become heavier and soon I am dragging bricks backstage, hiding behind the curtains so no one can see me. Now its time for the boys to go out, steal their hearts, and make us look bad. That was there job. But when I passed Calum, there was no snarky remark or a sarcastic compliment. He just looked at me.

"Damn." He says, "Didn't know someone could play like that." I hope, I really do, that my cheeks don't betray me.

After that, it was a pleasure to discover that the drinks were at least good, alcoholic, but so was everything else. Drinking anything after that kind of exercise, after that kind of social interaction, feels like the greatest luxury on earth. The ice falls against the glass, my hands sliding on the condensation before my fingers regain their grip. I feel the chill run down my esophagus and my head makes an involuntary shake, happily, like a dog. The sweat laid on my skin as softly as new spring rain and rode down my back before I finnaly decided to sit. Another uncomfortable chair. I needed to think, again. Process.

"He likes you, you know?" There she is, Charlie. Appearing from her corner for the first time this week, maybe. "People don't do that if they don't like someone."

"Your delusional."

"I might be... but aren't we all?"


	6. ask the girl in the sundress

If one can sit in a manner that transmits a sense of grace and intelligent poise, Grace has mastered it.

The girl is sitting prim in an old winged armchair, legs crossed and fingers intertwined over one knee. She leans forwards and watches the screen, controller in hand until further notice. It's yellow, like her dress, and radiates the same energy. I watch her thumbs hitchhike her way towards first place, the boys don't stand a chance. Behind each and every focused face, I know there is panic and distress. I don't think the've ever lost against a girl, let alone one wearing a sundress.

Once again, one of the virtual go-karts have spun off the track, second place then going to a computer, not Michael. In her arrogant triumph, Grace smirked - just a small pouting of the lips; a narrowing of the eyes and a tilting of the head. So subtle, it was even more infuriating for Michael who caught a glimpse of it after making the foolish mistake. His hands had peaked and almost like a cartoon, so did his red, fiery hair.

With a toss of the remote, he leaves the room, "you're a cheater." 

I watch Grace follow, because even though she's elegant, she's too nice not to apologize. 

Calum rounded the corner as the fretted teenagers left. He had the same old stupid wooly hat over his curls and of course his eyes were downcast. Then he tilted his head upwards, instantly I realized the reason he had studied the filthy tarmac right up to my toes, his face was one of barely concealed glee, there was triumph in those mud-brown eyes and his mouth twitched upwards on the left, dimpling his cheek. Damn-it if he wasn't smirking at me. 

He gives me a remote, turns on the Tv, and seats himself. Simple. His hand beckons me as he pats the sofa, rings leaving a mark. I'm supposed to sit down now. I don't though, I'm too scared. Instead I sit on the floor and he's confused no doubt, but doesn't question a thing. We play for hours. Grace has taught me enough just through observations to know when and where to kick his ass. Sometimes I let him win, but I am petty, so it truly is a rare occasion.

We're called outside by noon. I watch as each and every bus lines the road, tires marking their tracks and people engaging in incompetent conversations. Ones that I hope don't last. Today the light is oddly bright, casting the seagulls into dark shadows against a sky that looks pale blue, but feels awfully pink. Their wings beat, hugging the air as they drift on unseen thermals. For a few moments they have Calum's eye, keeping him spun into some sort of daydream. I wonder what bus he'll be in, hopefully not mine. 

Somebody is yelling as if this is boarding school and in minutes every one knows they mean business. A wizened face peered out from under a wedge of blue hat, which was the only thing on his otherwise bald and mottled scalp save a sparse fringe of white. His eyes were so heavily lidded and weighed down with wrinkled folds that it was almost like talking to someone asleep, yet he was quite alert. 

"You," he points to me and I tense, everyone is staring now, "bus one."

I'm quick to move, shuffling my things inside that metal cocoon. Lucky enough, Calum has followed. "Lucky pick, I guess." He shrugs placing his bags on his bed just as everyone else has done.

This isn't like the airport bus, it's bigger and better, supposedly. Now we're supposed to be famous, yet everything only felt more expensive. I knew the verdict. It was going to be us four on those back seats every night, those shiny new versions of what what was once the old route masters. I reverently rubbed my fingers along the silken mattress, each bed neatly made only to be destroyed by us teenagers and let my bags tumble across. I didn't carry much, only necessities. Only things that would keep me breathing, at least.

I looked at Calum, His hair moved in the wind as if it felt the need to add an exclamation point to his cuteness. He smiled and I sighed, he's offering me drinks from that beaten down cooler and I can't help but abide once more. It's a hot day and I'm thirsty, it would be wrong to refuse a drink from the kind man asking. He pops the cap, easy peasy, because after all, he can open a bottle anywhere. "Cheers to tour," he says.

This was going to be a long couple of months.


End file.
